Misspent Youth
by Blakrobe
Summary: A rent boy is picked up in a bar by a mysterious old man. Who is he, and what does he really want?


Misspent Youth  
  
"So, what did you say your name was?" asked the young man of what he presumed to be a would-be patron. The older man (and he was old. Somewhere between 80 and dead it seemed) looked amused. "My name in the old land would sound strange to a Western tongue," he said, which made the young man think maybe he was Eastern European. Or something. "but Simon is perhaps closest in the way it sounds." "Ah. Sure." Said the young man, although he could be more properly thought of as a rent boy. He looked the man up and down. He wore loose fitting clothes, as if he'd decided that it didn't really matter what he wore. The clothes might have been white once, but now they were faded. All the same, small movements would reveal new colours in the clothes. In better condition they might have been dazzling. The old man also wore a long white beard, which would have been off putting if business wasn't slower. But the beard did not hide a singular wound. The boy couldn't help but stare at it. "My wound, yes. It must be fascinating," the man said, bitterness thick in his tongue. His voice held such tones in it, that the boy almost wanted to kneel down on the floor and beg for forgiveness. Which was insane. "Sorry," he lied, "but it's obvious. What happened?" "An irritating man, a worm of a man, who was fit for nothing, blamed me for his own decisions, and his own weakness. He slit my throat." The young man winced. "Ah, do not worry yourself, little one" (and that really pissed off the rent boy) "I survived somehow. In my.family, it takes quite a feat to kill us off." The old man scowled. "Greatly I regret that in some cases. But he is not on these shores." The man seemed to dwell in some long forgotten memory that the boy did not want to intrude upon. There was as much silence as could be expected from a bar on Canal Street, Manchester. That is to say, none whatsoever. After much 'silence,' the rent boy said, "Look, I can pick up somewhere else, if you wanna make an offer, you make it now." That drew those old eyes back to him. "Ah. Yes. The transaction for your.services." Scorn poured from the voice, and rolled over the rent-boy, and across the room. It wasn't just the rent-boy that felt ashamed. Each and every person in the venue was recalling every shameful and sordid act of their life. Each and every one felt like a child called to the Headmaster's office. "Hey, you're the one paying for sex. Don't get high and mighty unless you can pay extra for it." The eyes glared at him, and then the whole face became a warm mask. "Of course, my friend. I assume Two hundred pounds will suffice? And I am a feeble old man after all." Warmth and pity, to the rent boy's astonishment, spilled out of his heart. "No, you don't have to pay that much," he said, not believing his own words, "shall we discuss it at yours?" "Certainly," said the man, Simon he had said, and a certain.satisfaction resounded in the voice. It was as if no emotion that could be felt, could not be expressed in that rich and amused voice.  
  
The old man lead the way. As if following a god or a mighty leader, the rent boy knew that he could not fail to walk in the man's foot steps.  
  
***  
  
The rent boy found himself sitting in a comfortable arm chair. He'd looked around the house, and it looked much like a 'granddad' type of house. Old but comfortable. A ticking clock that broke an otherwise deadened silence. It looked rather like everything had been bought in the fifties, and cared for since. It was bizarre to the rent boy, to find himself in a place like this during business.  
  
Simon came into the room with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The bottle was not labelled. "Here, have some," he said. "Hey, I'm only here for the thing you know," the rent boy replied. "You'll still be paid. In the mean time, enjoy the hospitality of.Simon." The rent boy noticed the pause in the sentence, but didn't think much of it. He accepted the glass. The wine was white, and almost silvery and luminescent. "What is this?" he asked. "Oh.I've had it laid by for quite some while. I do not have company much." The rent boy relaxed. He might not even have to have sex with the old man.he was just one of those rare strange types that were just too maladjusted to find someone to talk to in a normal situation. There was a brief pause as they both sipped at the wine.  
  
"What do they call you?" asked Simon. The rent boy paused. He didn't generally give his real name to clients, but there was something in the man's voice that. "I'm Darren." "A young man's name I feel. I cannot imagine a man of my age possessing that name." Simon laughed roughly then, and broke into a series of coughs. "Are you okay?" asked Darren. "Hmph. I will survive. I smoked some considerable time ago, and these things bear their toll, or so I am informed." "You gave up because you were worried about cancer?" Darren asked. He still smoked. "No. I just couldn't get the quality of pipe weed I was used to, and smoking lost its attraction." "Oh." There was more silence. Simon reached down next to his chair, and brought up a large oaken staff. He stared at it thoughtfully. "You don't use that for walking do you?" asked Darren, with some surprise. "Oh.no. I can walk fine thank you, young man. But I felt quite lost when I lost my last staff. Not that it is very important, but it does comfort me somewhat." Darren suddenly felt like he was in a situation that could fast become scary. "Maybe I should go," said Darren. "Oh, I don't think so," said Simon. He said something odd, and Darren felt very numb and warm. "You will stay right there." The old man stood up, leaning upon the staff slightly, but as if from habit rather than weakness. Darren's eyes widened slightly with fear, as the old man allowed his clothes to fall from his aged body with a small shrug. He tried to avert his eyes, but his neck muscles ignored panicked commands from his mind. The old man hobbled forwards. "They took my staff from me, a long time ago. And yes, they even slit my throat. And I shall never have the ring. But still I endure, and now I am determined to endure in youth." He stretched forward a wrinkled hand to touch Darren's face. "Please don't!" gasped Darren, not knowing what was going to happen.  
  
The old man's features creased in an expression vaguely resembling regret. "I'm afraid I haven't been much of a host. But you won't be missed, and I'm sure I can make better use of a body like yours." There was no flash of light, nor any mysterious and gradual change. In a split second, there was dust covering the arm chair. And Saruman stood there naked, looking as he might have at the age of eighteen, if he had not been created an old man. He walked over to the mirror. The beard no longer seemed to suit him. With a gesture it became dust and drifted to the floor. He smiled with satisfaction, and his Voice rolled around the room that had been home since the Blitz had ended. "At last, Saruman has something close to what he wanted, and he shall live out his days in peace." He discarded the staff, no longer needing its comfort. He got dressed in new clothes, that suited his younger body more. They were not white, nor were they of many colours. They were autumn shades. Saruman said goodbye to the room, and goodbye to Saruman, and walked out into life. 


End file.
